


Parlour Girl

by Sailing the Malky Way (Fan_by_Proxy)



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Sharing, Blood and Injury, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Mental Anguish, Mental Instability, New York is a bad time for broke vampires, Origin Story, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 15:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30124971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fan_by_Proxy/pseuds/Sailing%20the%20Malky%20Way
Summary: Circe the Malkavian wasn't always an Anarch, or a retainer: once upon a time, she was just a massage therapist making ends meet and going out on the weekends...and then she met her sire and found herself Embraced and clueless. Survival as a means to the end is one way to live, but not the best way.(An unglamorous origin story for one of my oldest VTM:B OCs)
Relationships: Original Malkavian Character(s) & Original Nosferatu Character(s), Original Malkavian Character(s) & Sebastian Lacroix
Comments: 8
Kudos: 3





	1. An Introduction, Though Basic and Mean

In the party strobe of the warehouse, everyone looked like a fabulous monster. The only thing about Lem that stood out from all the other punks and dealers and dancers was his smile and the way his eyes cut through the mayhem; his stock improved considerably during their nasty hook-up in the bathroom. The burn in her thighs had hung on for _days_ after. Circe didn’t remember giving him her number _that_ night…but she’d been well-buzzed and well-fucked, so who was to say who scribbled what on whose hand with a stolen Sharpie?

The relationship--in as much as one could call it a _relationship_ \--was hot and heavy. In retrospect, much too hot and much, _much_ too heavy, with Lem calling or showing up at her apartment as soon as the sun set, as if by _magic_. For all that her head would clear during the day, all good common sense left Circe as soon as Lem came near. What should have ended in a spectacular fight and possibly some personal item defenestration instead ended in a different kind of death.

_Wake up--_

_\--girl, stupid_ _ stupid _ _girl--_

_The moon’s so far away tonight--_

_\--wake up girl, he’s coming--_

_\--he’s coming--_

_\--run! Take the baby and run!--_

Circe jolted awake, chest tight like the time she’d nearly drowned at the pool at the Y; her ears rang and she was _sure_ the room was full of people--watching, judging, whispering people. She sat up, hugging the threadbare sheet to her chest, looking around wildly.

“Good, you’re up.” Lem--long, lanky, punk aesthete Lem--said shortly, throwing a bundle of clothing at her. “Get dressed, we gotta move.”

The bundle hit her square in the face, causing her to startle badly and bang an elbow into the headboard. She picked it up with shaking hands, finding a dress that wasn’t hers and panties that weren’t hers, and stockings that weren’t hers. They were clean, but they were _not_ her clothes. “Whu--” Circe struggled to make something sensible come out of her mouth; she tasted ash and pennies and cotton, and didn’t know why. She’d opted to keep clean last night, stuck to Tab and barely inhaled when the dutchie came around. _Why did she feel like absolute shit_ and why was everything so noisy?!

“Get _dressed_ , babe. We gotta move. Gotta get you something to drink, then we gotta skip town.” Lem said frankly, lighting another cigarette. He ambled to the bed where she sat, and did the thing she hated most: caught her nose between the knuckles of his fingers and gave her a shake. “Up and at’em Carmilla!”

The name rang a bell, quite literally, although Circe herself did not know the reference. A whisper somewhere behind her did, however: _sweetest rose that grows among the tombstones, a thief in the night who feasts on the gentlest of lambs…a vampire, stupid girl, Carmilla is a vampire!_

Lem gave her another shake in that obnoxious way, then bounced the back of his hand off her cheek. “Get _dressed_.” He repeated, this time showing his teeth…his very long, sharp teeth.

“What did you _do_ to me?” Circe slurred, the words feeling very thick and weirdly physical. She could _almost_ see the shape of them as they left her mouth.

He grabbed her chin and forced her head to tip back, planting a knee on her chest to pin her against the headboard. “What I wanted to.” Lem said, teeth still too long and too sharp as he smiled down at her. “Don’t cry, baby. Don’t got time for that; we gotta go. Now _get dressed_.” he snarled, threatening her cheek with the lit end of the cigarette before moving away from her with a giggle.

_Don’t cry, stupid girl--_

_\--the nights are longer for you than him--_

_\--listen well--_

_\--stupid,_ _ stupid _ _girl--_

The tear she hastily rubbed away left a pink streak on the back of her hand. She understood that something Very Bad™ had happened to her, but it was something well outside of the usual kind of Very Bad™ that happened to girls who went around with the wrong people. Words stacked on one another in her throat, blocking each other from getting out; she dressed as ordered in a daze, in someone else’s clothes, and fell into step behind Lem as a few more tears slipped down her cheeks. They were pink too, and that was perhaps even more frightening than the crowd of whispers that followed her out of the no-tell motel Lem had brought them to the night before.

They’d fled Ohio then; Lem had explained (in the most minimal, meanest of terms) dueling secret societies that wouldn’t approve of what he’d done, and both would take their disapproval out on her. The first few months since that fatal Kiss were like a honeymoon; he’d cradled her through the day, talked over the _constant_ whispers, held squirming youths still for her to feed on…but like all honeymoons, it was over much too soon. Lem lost patience with her, and with that lost patience went every scrap of kindness. The “madness” that afflicted him had not passed to her; where Lem was often full of nervous energy and wild paranoia that even dragged him out of the death-like day sleep, Circe could functionally perform but found herself constantly distracted by _whispers_ and bad dreams--and whereas on that first night she’d just struggled to speak, now she struggled to make sense _or_ shut up. Not that that mattered, once Lem lost his patience. Her _job_ , as far as he was concerned, was to be cute and inviting and get the wallets off the corpses. He left a lot of corpses in their wake. She _hated_ that.


	2. Uptown Funks

Autumn in New York was a wretched time for anyone who didn’t have money, connections, or the ability to generate their own body heat after dark. Why Lem had brought them north instead of going _south_ where things were warmer was beyond her; but he didn’t ask her opinion on anything anymore. Waiting in line at one of the seedy, secret clubs around Manhattan, the whispers turned to screams, and in spite of every preceding failure, Circe _tried_ to make her Sire and her bane understand.

“Tonight is the _Danse Macabre_ , Lem; a raid and plague by forces in debt to shovels who despise calm order.” She whispered to Lem, pulling on the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“ _Shut_ up, you stupid bitch. Someone’ll hear your shit.” he hissed, ripping his arm out of her grasp and stepping ahead of her.

Circe looked at the back of his head, then past it towards the bouncer who still had someone’s teeth marks on his neck; the night was young enough that regular people populated the streets in greater numbers than the monsters they never noticed. She was tired, and it hadn’t even been a full decade since Lem had dragged her into the darkness; but was she ready to die? _Or_ was she just ready for Lem to be dead?

The line shuffled forward, and Circe pulled the flimsy vinyl coat she’d taken off a goth a few nights earlier tighter; it didn’t do much of anything against the seasonal bite or the panic welling to the sound of screams only she heard. The line shuffled forward again, Lem leading the way inside the club.

“You in or out?” the bouncer asked, after a hard-eyed ogle. “Either move that ass in or go home.”

“In, or out…” Circe repeated. “In or out, or in _and_ out.” she murmured distractedly.

The bouncer rolled his eyes. “Fucking junkies.” he grabbed her arm and forcibly moved her out of the line, causing her to stumble and fall to her hands and knees on the sidewalk.

More coldness seeped inside as the rough concrete took its portion of skin from her knees and palms. Circe got up slowly and awkwardly, brushing her hands off. Aside from a few snickers, no one in line seemed to care about the violence that had just happened; the bouncer certainly didn’t seem to care. Lem was inside, and wouldn’t have cared if he’d seen what had happened. In that moment, the voices _went quiet_. She was un-tethered and alone. The night was open to her in a way it hadn’t been in a good long while.

Circe jogged across the street, glad to put more distance between her body and the tinderbox club. A few blocks away, the voices started again, pushing her to go further uptown--

_\--get help--_

_Ask a Prince for a favor and see how it goes--_

_\--stupid girl, get some pants!_

_\--stay in the lights, always the lights--_

\--despite the fact the cheapness of her clothes would stand out in starkest contrast to the designer labels and weather-appropriate gear both vampires and non-vampires had on. She was following a _whim_ : something that struck often and that Lem had both preached doing and railed against all in the same breath. It was, if she understood the very little bit of history Lem had deigned to drop on her, a mark of their _clan_ and something she’d just have to live with.

_\--look out for taxis--_

_\--look both ways--_

_\--vEntUrE uPwArdS SoN--_

_\--the highest room of the tallest tower--_

_\--stupid girl!--_

Circe was lost in her thoughts, trying to figure out why it was so important to get _uptown_ , when someone grabbed her elbow and dragged her into a corner store. She blinked at the sudden shift from drizzly, misty lights to cold fluorescent. “ _Whu_ \--”

“Shut up, _and listen_ , alright? Tell Michaela we want in.” The person who had grabbed her--who still had a painfully tight grip on her elbow, as a matter of fact--spoke with a hiss and seemed to be made up of clothes and shadows. Their face was hidden under a balaclava under a hoodie under a longer jacket, and a dirty knit hat, and she could feel the prickle of sharp nails through their mitten. “You tell her she can have us, we’ll do all the grunt work she wants, but she’s _got_ to send us help, some back-up, _anything_! The Sabbat are ripping through us like we’re nothing.” the person hissed.

“Such dire pleas fall on willing ears but the mind wanders, seeking an answer to questions assumed to have already been asked.” Circe replied, then shook her head. “No, no, these damned riddles and broken mirrors--” she tried again. “ _Fuck_!”

The shadowy laundry pile groaned. “Fucking _Malkavian_ , seriously? Do you even know what time it is?”

Circe shrugged as the tears welled. “No ill intent guides these words, though the meanings go awry at every utterance-- _fuck_.” she wiped at her face with her free hand, ignoring the texture of bloody tears.

The figure sighed. “Look, if I write this down, will you take it to Michaela? Do you even know who that _is_?”

Circe shook her head.

“Fucking _of course_ , the one fang walking around has to be a goddamn tourist.” the figure muttered under their breath. “Look, listen to me sweet-cheeks, and pay _real_ close attention. I’m gonna write this note, I’m gonna put it in your screwball little hand, and you’re going to take it to the Plaza,” the figure said slowly, “and you’re gonna go _all_ the way up to the _Ventures Capitol_ office, at the top of the Plaza, and you’re going to bring this letter to _Michaela_ , ok? She’s the Prince around here--you _do_ know what _that_ means, right?”

She didn’t exactly appreciate the almost visible condescension in the stranger’s voice, but there didn’t seem to be a lot of room to talk--or there was, but she still hadn’t figured out _how_ to do it. “Made monster? Monster in charge? Main monster in charge of a sinking ship?”

“Something like that--but do _not_ say that last part where somebody else can hear you.” the figure warned. “Can you do that, kid? Can you get that far?”

“Why not post your own haste, flying fleetly on a path you know?” Circe asked.

The figure shook their head. “I don’t got time for this. You do this for me, I’ll owe you. You meet me in the alley behind Fabio’s, off 49th…then I’ll show you. Alright?”

The whim, which had already begged to be followed uptown, twisted around again and the voices were in _general_ agreement that it was better to run this errand than wander aimlessly until the sun got ready to rise and she would have to break into another storage center to hide for the day. “Like Frankie Says, relax.” she shrugged.

“That better mean ‘yes’ in loony.” the figure replied, pulling out a tattered notepad and writing with pencil stub gripped in a fist. “Do this, I’ll owe you.” they repeated.

Circe nodded, tucking the note into her bra. She let the grumpy pile of laundry and shadows walk her out of the corner market and push her in the general right direction. As the chill of the concrete worked its way through the thinning soles of her already-ragged high heels, Circe wondered if it wouldn’t actually be better to just go and find some place to sit and wait for the sun to come up; after all, she was alone, everyone she knew thought she was _dead_ or missing, she had a whopping $5 to her name, and if the screams were to be believed, Lem would be dead before the week was out, which was the only real bright side to the whole situation.

As dark as the musings were, they had at least carried her all the way to the requested delivery point without too much hassle. The security guard on the desk had started to wave her away, but a little charm and a flash of nip had him opening the door and leading her inside to a bathroom. After a little sip that left the man dazed and sticky in his pants, Circe wandered the lobby until she found the right signage, then followed _that_ to a bank of elevators. “The highest room, the tallest tower…” she murmured to herself, getting on and hoping there wasn’t someone heavily armed and disinterested in breasts guarding the office in question.

_Ventures Capitol_ was the brainchild of one very determined lady vampire who was not at all pleased to see a shabbily dressed, babbling vampire in her building, waving a dirty piece of lined paper at her. The _only_ reason Michaela didn’t have her immediately killed, was that there was a contract dispute with the janitorial staff and she didn’t feel like having to deal with an ash pile after. Plus, if the fool could be made to give a straight answer, she’d know who to fire.

“Apologies, Madame Venture, but pleas for help by the score; first for the lost and then for the me.” Circe said as she laid the note on the expensive and fashionable desk. “My Sire, one of the fallen, who took his secrets and his banking numbers to the sun with him. Though my words are scrambled, my mind is clear; I am not some broken paper-hanger.” she explained, wondering if the sneering, well-dressed woman who was glaring daggers at her from the other side of the desk understood. Circe didn’t even know which side of the night’s conflict she sat on, but it didn’t matter: sometimes picking a side was about who would have you first, not best.

The Prince had been expecting to take an overseas phone call and have a bit of a teleconference about some properties abroad; not wasting her time listening to the ramblings of a questionably and cheaply dressed admitted Caitiff! She couldn’t imagine the _audacity_ of sneaking into _this_ building, in _that_ state, with nothing to offer but services that frankly wouldn’t do most Kindred any good. She opened a drawer to the right, debated for a moment between the loaded gun and the small purse, ultimately deciding that a little fiscal lubrication would get rid of the miscreant the fastest. It wasn’t the _best_ policy, but she really didn’t want the strange, rambling woman with the mismatched eyes and unsettling air around while she was trying to conduct _actual_ business. Michaela pulled some money from the little purse and set it back in the drawer, closing it before throwing the couple of twenties onto the desk. “That’s all I can do for you, since you _somehow_ managed to get this far.” she said haughtily. “Do not come again unless I’ve asked for you, and believe me dear-- _I will never ask for_ _you_.”

Circe picked the money up, shoving it into her bra for safekeeping. “Many thanks for the princely sum, ma’am.” she said, regretting for possibly the actual thousandth time that sarcasm didn’t come across the way it used to when she could talk in a straight line. “Did you know a cardinal is territorial? And dyed red by the blood of his enemies?” she added, though for what reason she didn’t know.

“Yes, I’m _sure_.” The Prince said drily. “On your way now. And _never_ feed on my staff again. Your tenure in _my_ territory should be short, do you understand?” She snapped; the Malkavian’s words had been threatening, but that was the case for most Malkavian dialogue. If the ragamuffin’s sire was dead, at least that meant she wasn’t looking at a sudden influx of madness in her city; that was the _last_ thing she needed.

Circe nodded, walking backwards a couple of steps before turning around to go to the door. She looked back over her shoulder, and watched the woman push the crumpled note off her desk with a sneer of distaste. It seemed that there wasn’t any help for the grumpy laundry pile…or anyone who didn’t show up in the office in expensive clothes. But she had done the favor as was asked, and now it was time to try and find Fabio’s and maybe beg a place to stay for the day.


	3. Beware the Moon, Cowboy

The restaurant--or what used to be a restaurant and was now a burnt shell awaiting tear-down--hadn’t been the easiest to find. Maybe the mystery note-writer was one of those who ignored the way the world changed once they themselves stopped changing; there’d been more than a few of those on the way to New York. But Circe had somewhow managed, mostly by following shadows and the un-housed until she found one with the right shape.

“So? So what’d she say? Fuck, can you even tell me!” the note writer demanded, catching her elbow again and dragging her away from the street.

“Coldness and a dismissal, even of the desperate missive.” Circe replied. “Me thinks the lady cares not for any that do not glitter as gold.”

The figure snarled, turning away from her sharply. They kicked at garbage and swore in an increasingly frantic series of hisses, until they sounded like radio static.

_\--stupid girl--_

_\--a monster!--_

_\--scared, cold, alone, doesn’t that seem familiar?_

_\--perhaps Christine Daae could do it!_

Circe followed the hissing, desperate figure and reached out, putting a hand on their shoulder. It wasn’t the _best_ idea--the figure startled, slashing her throat with nails that destroyed the mitten on one hand as the other palmed her face and pushed her head into soot-darkened bricks. Circe tasted wet wool and salt and dried blood; it was everything she could do to make herself go limp. Something inside--something that roared louder than the voices at the taste of blood and smell of smoke--clawed at her guts to try and force her hands to return the violent favor. She denied it that much, having seen what damage a couple of vampires could do to each other, and how much effort it took to clean up after.

“ _Fuck_ \--kid, I--stupid girl! Don’t sneak up on any of us, you got that?” the figure demanded, jumping back from her and wiping their gory hand on their clothes. “For pity’s sake, don’t you know anything?”

Circe whimpered, hands to her throat to stymie the sluggish flow of blood as she shook her head ‘no’. She didn’t dare try to ramble with the wound taking its time closing.

“I--you--” the figure made another guttural growl, obviously frustrated. “Times are bad, you _stupid_ \--don’t walk up on somebody you don’t know! _Ever_! You got that? Doesn’t matter what you are, because somebody older, somebody stronger, somebody _smarter_ can just come out of the dark and then you’re fucking dust! _Got it_?”

She nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

The figure shook their head. “ _Stupid_ no-nothings…you even know who made you?”

Circe nodded again, then drew a line across her fresh-healed throat. She didn’t know if that was actually true, but as far as she was concerned, Lem was dead to her and that was good enough.

The figure sighed. “Of fucking _course_. You should get outta this city, kid. Go somewhere else-- _anywhere_ else!”

She made a face and rubbed her fingers together in the generally understood sign for ‘money’.

“Yeah… _yeah_. Tell me about it…but you keep your mouth shut, good-lookin’ thing like you should be alright.” they pointed out.

Circe rolled her eyes. “Though honey be sweet, the wasp’s sting brings unwanted attention…and then other times, one is the fig instead of the wasp.” The allegory was a little muddled, but the point still mostly stood: meals were easy to come by with the right flirt, but security took more work and did tend to backfire spectacularly. “But more importantly, _most importantly_ , as Apollo’s chariot speeds closer…the post was posted, and there’s party favors to be paid.”

“I really wish you’d say something _normal_.” the figure said bitterly. “But I think I got you--I don’t got cash. Look at me, _I don’t got cash_.”

“Not lucre, filthy or otherwise. Where do we Rip Van Winkle safely in this contest of a city? What morgue, what storage locker, what… _anywhere_ can the weary traveler rest?” she pleaded.

“You don’t wanna sleep where I sleep.” the figure replied. “Go find a different corner of Hell, sweet cheeks.” The figure said, starting to melt back into shadows that were starting to retreat.

Circe reached out with both hands, letting every ounce of fear and desperation show on her face. “ _Please_ …help?” She heard a snarl, and then found herself pressed against the sooty wall again, this time by a clawed hand on her chest. The other hand pulled the front of the balaclava down, revealing a snarling toothsome face.

The figure’s eyes were nearly solidly black, large and glittering and predatory; every tooth was a fang and none of them seemed to fit the mouth, with one of the lower ones grown so large it carved out a ridge in the upper lip. The nose was ridged and flat, barely coming away from the face at all. It was one of the vampires that Lem called ‘leech’ and ‘rat’ and other unkind things.

“ _Please_.” Circe repeated, slowly and gently putting her hands over the hand that pressed into her chest. The skin was dry with a texture like sandpaper, tendons twitching under her touch. “A favor _and_ apologies are owed; even the damned must have _some_ hospitality.” she insisted quietly, doing her best to hold the other vampire’s eyes; between their size and her new tendency to twitch, it was difficult.

The vampire pulled away from her, hissing and cradling the hand she’d touched, as if she’d burned him. “You--pulling those big crazy eyes on me--I’m not--you don’t--” they stammered, before kicking the ground and snapping their fingers at her irritably. “Come on, if you’re gonna come then.”

She nodded, hugging the thin crappy jacket tighter around herself and tottering after them as quickly as she could. There was a _slight_ tingling in her toes; the only sign of stress despite so many nights in heels that didn’t fit properly to begin with. Circe was glad it was just a little tingle instead of blistering, throbbing, screaming irritation…but at the same time, pain was human and that quality was in short supply among vampires, she’d noticed.

Eventually the Nosferatu brought them to a warehouse; they pushed her back and scratched at the door in a rhythm, then whispered through a crack beside it. She didn’t quite catch what was said, having focused too intently on trying to catch the rhythm first. When the door opened, the figure snapped their fingers close to her face to catch her attention.

“Come on, girl, time’s wasting.” the Nosferatu said irritably, stepping inside. Circe followed close on the heels, looking around.

The warehouse was large, with painted-over windows and a couple of rusty, graffiti-covered shipping containers in the center. Around the containers were groupings of people and furniture in various states of disrepair, a veritable model display of sagging couches and mangled manikins and jerry-rigged lighting and radios. It was, for all intents and purposes, a flophouse for monsters.

“Keep up and try not to stare.” the Nosferatu said irritably, flinching from the occasional flicker of light. “People here are tired, and they don’t need any shit.”

As he spoke, a wild-eyed vampire grabbed Circe’s leg with both hands, nails digging in. Her face was impossible, a mash-up of cat-like features forced onto a human skull. The vampire hissed up at her. The Nosferatu turned around and barked-- _actually barked_ \--in response, swiping at the other vampire, sending the cat-faced creature scurrying away, throwing hateful glares over her shoulder.

“ _Kitty_.” Circe murmured, bending down to wipe what little blood had trickled down her leg.

“Don’t tempt her, she’s a headcase.” the Nosferatu replied. “And move it, girl. You gotta meet Momma Moon; she’ll know where to put you for the day.” he snapped, moving again.

Circe followed him up to the second floor of the warehouse and into what was clearly meant to be an honored living space; it was walled off with three hospital privacy curtains, and strung with Christmas lights. There were pieces of carpet covering the floor grating from one fake wall to another, and the furniture within (a four poster bed with one broken post, a big recliner whose pattern was ugly and worn, a dresser with all its legs and a small TV on top of it) was the best out of what was around. Sitting in the ugly recliner was an old white-haired woman with a few crooked, gray teeth still in her pale-gummed mouth; in her knobby hands was a pair of knitting needles and what might’ve been the beginning of a sweater. Circe couldn’t figure out if she was a vampire or just a clued-in homeless woman who somehow managed to sit at the top of the trash heap.

“Momma.” the Nosferatu said tenderly. “How you doin’?” He took off the pom-pom hat and the balaclava, revealing a lumpy bald head and pointed ears that looked like they’d been chewed on by rats more than once.

The old woman smiled wide, gesturing to garbage bag nearby. “I’m alright, Roy, I’m alright. But you--you brought a _girl_ home?” she asked eagerly.

The Nosferatu--Roy--settled onto the garbage bag seat, balancing his arms on his knees. “It’s not like that, Momma. This girl--she’s nobody. But I kinda…I kinda _owe_ her.” he mumbled.

The old woman gave him a stern look. “ _Roy_.”

“I couldn’t get into Manhattan--I mean not close _enough_ to Manhattan, some pretty boys ran me off. So I got this one to take a note…I don’t think it did us any good, but she did it,” then his voice dropped into a shamed mumble, “and I owe her an apology.”

Momma Moon pursed her lips and sighed dramatically, as only a matriarch can. “Oh _Roy_ …bet your temper got the best of you again too, didn’t it?”

He didn’t answer.

The old woman turned her attention to Circe. “Well, dear, let’s get to introductions. The night’s burning fast, after all.”

Circe opened her mouth hesitantly.

“There’s no point in asking _her_ , Momma--she’s a damn Malk. Talks in circles, doesn’t make any sense.” Roy said snidely.

Circe closed her mouth.

“ _Roy_ , I’m going to skin your leathery hide for that mouthing off you just did.” the old woman hissed, planting one of the knitting needles into the Nosferatu’s cheek.

He flinched and tried to lean away, but otherwise didn’t lash out.

“Now what do we say?” the old woman demanded, wiggling the needle.

“ _Sorry!_ ” Roy gasped.

“Accepted, easily! Roy speaks truthfully, like all good cowboys--my clan name and oratorial failures are as he says!” Circe said quickly as the old woman opened her mouth to continue her violent reprimand. “The name my mother gave me is an old one--bane of drunkards and Aeaea, though mother I am not and my odyssey only just begun!” she babbled.

The old woman cocked her head, pulling the needle out of the Nosferatu’s cheek. “ _Oh_ , my little _poetess_ ,” she purred, “don’t be afraid. You’re a good girl, just like my girl, my Celia. You’ll nap with her, if you _promise_ not to keep each other awake giggling.” she said fondly.

_\--mad woman--_

_\--Mother’s absolutely mad--_

_\--you’d need dynamite to wake her up, ha ha!--_

_\--just play along--_

_\--stupid girl--_

Circe nodded shakily. “As Momma bids, so it’s done.”

The old woman nodded firmly. “And you, Roy, you’ll pay the price for today. For being rude.”

The Nosferatu nodded, fingers touching his injured cheek lightly. “Yes ma’am.” he said quietly, drawing a finger across the fang that cut his upper lip and holding it up to the old woman.

Her eyes went wide and she latched on, gray little teeth worrying the wound to bring more of the sluggish, dark blood to her tongue; Roy winced, but did not draw away.

Circe wasn’t sure what she was watching, but more than just the voices warned that this was _wrong_ \--that the whole situation was _off_ and _wrong_ and she should want _no_ part of it. The _only_ reason she would stay today was because there wasn’t another _immediate_ option.

“Good boy.” Momma Moon said after she’d gotten what she could get, running a hand over the Nosferatu’s scalp even as he flinched under the touch. “Now, it’s nearly bedtime, so off you get.” She said imperiously. “I’ll show our little poetess where to sleep.”

Roy got to his feet awkwardly, head ducked down and shoulders up defensively, eyes to the ground as he moved out of the flophouse matron’s space. He shot a difficult-to-read look at Circe from the corner of his eye, but said nothing else.

The old ghoul set aside her knitting and got up with a little struggle, shuffling across the carpet pieces with surprising ease, reaching Circe and grabbing her arm with the same grip Roy had earlier that night. “This way, my little poetess, this way.” she chirruped, sounding much more cheerful than before.

Circe allowed herself to be led to what must’ve been an office at one point, waiting as the old ghoul unlocked the door.

“Celia, my little sweet, my treasure, Momma’s brought a friend for you! You can whisper poems to each other until beddy-bye, but then it’s _right_ to sleep like good girls.” Momma Moon’s tone was sickeningly sweet, to the point of suspicion. She shoved Circe over the threshold and slammed the door shut, locking it with an audible click.

The windows of the little office were blocked over with panels of plywood; some parts were covered with yellowed floral wallpaper, others with newsprint paper drawings, and the rest taken up by a large dark bookcase whose shelves sagged under the weight of books crammed in at every angle. A carousel lamp threw a yellow-washed rainbow across the faded oriental rug on the ground and gave the whole room a dim, sickly glow. It sat on a beautiful old side-table with a porcelain knob on the single drawer, beside a little tray of brown glass bottles. There was a small brass bed to the right of the side table, and a cot across from it on the other side. On the brass bed was…a doll? Certainly a figure, with a waxy pallor and brown pigtails, wearing a red flannel nightgown.

Circe edged closer to the bed, leaning over the doll-like body, almost tempted to touch just to find out if her fingers would feel plastic, the uncanny texture of vampiric skin, or something else.

Then the body opened its eyes. The eyes themselves were nearly colorless, the gaze steady and predatory.

Circe stifled a scream by shoving her fingers in her mouth. There was a feeling in her mind, a feathery tickle of a thought that she was pretty sure weren’t actually hers; but it was fuzzier than the rest, quieter than the rest, sliding away like a bead of oil on top of water. It reminded her of Lem, for some reason; there had been times when he’d fixed her with the same kind of ugly gaze and snapped an order, and in the beginning she’d obeyed to keep from feeling like worms were burrowing under her skin…but after a while, it just didn’t work. Then he’d have to ask again, normally and sometimes with the threat of violence. Was…was this _thing_ trying to force her will the way Lem always tried to? Circe didn’t know, but she was glad whatever horrors the little thing was trying to push on her weren’t getting through!

The body--girl? Doll? Unholy moppet? Closed her eyes again.

Circe backed away until her legs hit the cot; collapsing on it, she shuddered. The girl on the other bed might’ve been ten or twelve, certainly too young to be a thing-of-the-night. Circe wondered if she really was Momma Moon’s daughter, or the most unfortunate unfortunate to wind up in the warehouse, or something even worse. That circular scramble for reason continued until daybreak, when the death-like sleep came on like a sharp blow to the head.

When she rose the next night, Circe found her hair carefully braided and with no idea how it had happened or who had done it. The body on the other bed was as still and doll-like as it had been the night before, her own braids as neat and tidy as Circe’s. Maybe it was Momma Moon’s doing? That wasn’t exactly a comforting thought, but Circe was glad to at least still be technically alive. She still didn’t know what she was going to _do_ , either for food or money or a bus ticket the hell out of New York, but for the moment, at least, she was still…


End file.
